I had always honored my dad’s memory by keeping the house he left me. Every corner reminded me of him—his laughter in the living room, his gentle hands fixing something in the kitchen, the smell of his pipe lingering faintly in the study. I thought living there would keep him close. But when my family moved in uninvited, I believed it would be temporary. It wasn’t. They took over completely and treated me like their personal maid. I endured it all—until the day they tried to push me out of

I am 75 years old now. My name is Margaret. My husband, Thomas, and I have been married for more than fifty years. Most of those years, it was just the two of us. We loved each other deeply, but there was always a quiet ache in our home—because we wanted children, and we could never have them. We tried for years. I went through test after test. Hormones. Appointments. Cold exam rooms and hopeful smiles that faded a little more each time. One afternoon, a doctor finally folded his